


Like the Sea

by SuzumePaige



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Floor Sex, Genderswap, Ocean Metaphors, Stanford Era, The one when Sam gets away, Vaginal Sex, girl!Sam, small tits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzumePaige/pseuds/SuzumePaige
Summary: They've traveled everywhere together so Dean lies when he says he understands Sam's need to pick a place and stand her ground. Funny how he's the one who resists change the most.





	Like the Sea

Sam had never had much in the way of tits. She'd been flat and gangly from the start and even after puberty had ebbed she'd still been the same A-cup that Dean had teased her about when he'd taken her to the mall to buy her first training bra. But other things had changed. 

Legs that had been all knees turned into long, lean limbs that seemed to soak up gold from the sun when they dangled out of the Impala windows in the summer. Muscles shifted beneath skin like alligators just beneath the water’s surface, strength waiting for the right outlet. She eventually found it, and headed to Palo Alto.

Dean suspected that the direction wouldn't have mattered so long as they'd taken her away from Dad. He missed her legs. Missed most of her, most days—mosquito bites included.

He thought of her everywhere he went. When Dad walked out to go to a bar, Dean thought of the things that Sam would have said to him in a voice like breaking glass. In diners, there was a silent commentary on the fat contents of the burgers he was eating. She still occupied a space between him and his father that was the shape of sharp elbows and frowning lips even when she wasn't there anymore. It took him two years to forget just how her hair looked in the morning.

Dean saw the coast in Seattle and even though it was freezing, with the ocean a nasty, churning gray, it made him think of her. When Sam was a kid she used to hang her head out the window like a dog and say that she could smell the ocean, even though they were somewhere landlocked like Kentucky, or Oklahoma. Younger than that she'd sit in the bathtub until Dad hauled her out, pruney and chattering in the long-cooled water.

Gritty sand was poured into an envelope and sent to Sam's campus address and Dean wondered if it was even still current. They hadn't talked in months. He'd forgotten the shape of her mouth.

He beat the letter to Stanford, was standing outside her door with his hands shoved deep into his pockets when she walked up with the mail. 

They hit the wall hard enough to drive a sound out of her lips, low and fluttering with her shaking breath. Sam's hands tugged at him to check if he was real and he was doing the same with her clothes, hair, face—and destroying any pretense that he was doing okay without her.

The key scratched at the knob and they tumbled inside in a twist of limbs and memories. Sam's jacket was left between the door and jamb. The mail fell. Dean's boots found their way beneath desk that he doubted Sam's long legs would fit under, even though the same legs fit fine beneath his, sliding into the empty spaces that she'd left when she'd left—calf against ass and feet arch to arch.

The carpet was cheap, and tough, but so was Dean. He didn't feel the way it scraped skin from his elbows, was too busy relearning the shape of her mouth and how it tasted like oranges, sweet and bitter. Their tongues were slick and he traced Sam's bottom lip from the middle out into turned up corner, chasing peppermint lip balm. Her hips were sharp against the damp flat of his palms and only barely hanging onto the jeans that she wore. 

Sam arched, spine contorting acrobatically as she twisted to peel her shirt away over her head. Dean caught the worn material in a fist when it had crawled down to her wrists and he felt her arms pull and test. Between them there was the soft slip of her skin against his knuckles as his fingers worked open button and zipper, hers and then his. 

The light through the window, gray and diffuse, made him think of the beach. Her body rolled like the choppy waves, jutting and crashing into him. Sam's breath was the quiet sobbing of the surf as it battered against the shore. There was no leather here in Palo Alto, no metal, mothballs, or kerosene. He could smell the ocean.

Her pants were kicked off; his followed, the two pairs of jeans tangoing into a shadowed corner. Socks scraped against skin where they tried to find a hold. Dean managed his shirt one handed and it pooled around his grip on the cloth pining her wrists with a dejected slump. His fingers bit into a knee he remembered applying bandaids to and Sam lifted her leg again; this time her thigh fit against his hip and held. 

Between them it was hot and wet and just as sweet as her mouth. Sam held her breath when he fucked into her, a slip and catch that was worked with a shallow demand until he couldn't go any deeper. Dean's toes dug into the carpet. It was hard to wait; he'd been waiting for two years. He'd been forgetting her piece by piece and had nothing to fill those empty spaces with. Or maybe he'd always had the holes, but Sam had held him together like sutures over a wound. Her fingers grasping at his, her legs winding around his hips, they'd kept him from tearing open and being pulled out at every low tide. 

If she was an ocean, he was her beach. Sam's highs had always bolstered him and drowned him. Her lows left him exposed and raw. Since she’d been gone he'd been that way, stretched too thin and always waiting for the next tide to cover him. 

Dean was tired of waiting. He was tired of losing himself on the miles of dry, hard asphalt. He had lips that were split from the sun and fingernails lined with the dirt of the dead. He was sick of the stability of land.

Sam was soft beneath him, wet around him. Her mouth was lax, a lazy oh of pleasure that Dean licked his way into and felt give like damp sand. Sam's body did the same, creeping around his edges until he was stuck, rutting against her with short, intense strokes that made her normally quiet exterior break away in thick clumps of sound. Sam's lips pressed against Dean's throat and left a humid track of where she'd been, a salty record of her passing. 

Around the edges his skin was too small, too tight, starved for what he'd been denied. Dean sank into her as five fingers tangled with hers—the others cupped a small breast, firm, thudding with the beat of her heart, the nipple hard against his palm. Sam's hips tilted toward him sharply and he came apart with her name on his tongue. Her body rolled, twisted while he could only shudder tightly, and she broke apart against him. 

They lay there, twined up as they had when they were young and didn't know better, before the roads everywhere had become too long for her. 

When Sam opened the envelope later, after he'd gone, sand spilled onto her floor.


End file.
